


The Old Familiar Name

by jessiohhh



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Astral Projection, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Medium Steve Rogers, Past Torture, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 22:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14531004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessiohhh/pseuds/jessiohhh
Summary: Steve Rogers has a little tent set up near Coney Island. It’s unremarkable from the outside, but once you come in, your questions will be answered from beyond. You see, Steve Rogers hasThe Gift. With the help of your deceased loved ones, Steve can answer your most burning questions, and pass messages through the veil.The life of a psychic is not an easy one; rent is usually paid late, and the cupboards stand empty. He believes, however, the lack of money is made up through friendship, art, and the life he shares with his Prince Charming, James Barnes.But it’s been three weeks since Steve last spoke to James, and James feels that such a minor technicality shouldn’t affect things. Not really.





	1. Header

"Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"

**\--Henry Scott Holland**

 


	2. Three Weeks

The home they shared was a disaster. It had been weeks since anyone had tidied up; bouquets of stargazer lilies drooped in the vase, scattering petals over unopened mail addressed to the occupants of the home. The atmosphere was oppressive; the blinds were drawn and a layer of dust coated everything.  Dishes sat unwashed in the sink, and the smell--it nearly became a presence of its own. It both smelled and felt like how your mouth tastes the moment when you first wake up after a night of binge drinking; humid, vaguely rancid, and disgusting.

 

Three weeks had passed since the flowers were lovingly placed in their vase. Three weeks since any of the mail had been opened, and nearly three weeks since a single dish had been washed. It had also been three weeks since Steven Rogers had spoken to James Barnes. 

 

James, handsome in a devil-may-care sort of way, sat in one of the old leather chairs that decorated the living room. They’d gotten them from a neighbor who’d unfortunately died a couple weeks after they had moved in, and they never upgraded from the shabby furniture. If it worked, why replace it? He crossed his ankles over the matching leather ottoman and sighed as he looked at the clock. Steve should be home any minute now.

 

Outside the apartment door, Steven’s keys jingled as he worked the lock. Plastic bags rustled and bumped against the door. James didn’t move to help Steve enter. He simply uncrossed his legs, and then crossed them again the opposite direction. The door bounced open and knocked hard against the wall as Steve moved inside with his shopping. It seemed to be more than the thin man could carry; plastic bags were covering most of his arms and he held a couple more items in his hands. He had always been too stubborn to make more than one trip.

 

Where James was handsome, Steven was plain. James--broad shouldered and tall, with dark hair that was artfully tousled and a sharp-edged jawline--was the antithesis of Steve. With his slight frame and blonde hair, Steve was often considered many years younger than his actual age of twenty-seven. Once, when he was well-past his early twenties, a waitress brought him a kids menu while he had been out on a date. Steve had been mortified for years after that, and never returned to the restaurant and never followed up on that date.

 

Steve coughed with a high pitched wheeze and he reached into his pocket to find his inhaler. James stood and began to approach the other man. Steve made no indication that he saw James standing near him, and James could do nothing but watch intently as Steve struggled to control his breathing. 

 

“I’m fine,” Steve said under his breath. He didn’t speak directly to James, but James took the comment as the first sign of an olive branch between the two of them.

 

“Are you?” James asked. Steve didn’t answer. 

 

“How long are you going to ignore me, Steve?” James asked as Steven busied himself in the kitchen. James could hear Steve shoving away his purchases and pulling old perishables out of the fridge. Steve still didn’t answer.

 

Later, after Steven had put away his groceries, and had made himself a sandwich--which felt more like a Herculean feat than anything else--he decided to try to tackle some of the grime in the apartment. He filled up the sink with warm soapy water and pulled out the yellow rubber gloves he used for doing dishes and cleaning. He waited for James to make a comment about the rubber gloves, and was slightly surprised when none came. 

 

Steve looked around the kitchen, expecting to see James standing there, but he wasn’t. He sighed, and began washing the weeks old dishes without complaint. 

 

It was dark when Steve was finishing the last few dishes. The water had gone cold, and the bubbles were mostly gone, but Steve didn’t notice. His eyes were locked out the window, watching as Coney Island lit up with lights. The lights had come up slowly. Steve loved watching as first lights came on; their tungsten glow flickering to life and illuminating the park. 

 

One of the few things Steve loved about his apartment was the window that overlooked Coney Island. Over the years, Steven would sit at the kitchen counter and sketch. It started when they first moved in, over four years ago, and Steve couldn’t help but draw the beautiful skyline in the evening. Steve’s favorite had always been the Wonder Wheel, but James’ had always been the Cyclone. 

 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” James said from just behind Steve. Steve inhaled sharply, James’ voice startling him. James paused for a moment checking on Steve before he leaned slightly closer and peered out the window himself. 

 

“The way the lights flicker out across the water, disappearing into the darkness; it’s peaceful--quiet. Completely different from the park itself.” James’ mouth curled up into a smile and he pulled back to look at Steve.

 

“You know, I fell in love with you at the top of the Wonder Wheel. Well, I think I fell in love with you long before that, probably when we were seven or eight, but I knew then.”

 

Steve was still--listening intently to every word that James said. “That night on the top. Your face was flickering red, and blue. And the fireworks went off. It was your fifteenth birthday, and we’d timed it just right so that we’d be at the top when the fireworks went. I didn’t think it’d happen, but somehow we lucked out and it did.”

 

“You kissed me.” Steve said, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

 

“I did. Punk, you still didn’t believe I could love you until you were twenty.” James’ voice had a teasing lilt to it. A tear slid down Steve’s cheek and he hurriedly scrubbed it away with his arm. 

 

“I was so mad at you.” Steve said, his voice hitching as he spoke. It was like a dam had burst and the tears wouldn’t stop. He pulled off the stupid yellow gloves and scrubbed at  his face. “I was so--” Steve stopped speaking as a sob tore its way out of his chest. 

 

“I’m sorry. Stevie, I’m sorry.” James said. He stepped closer to Steve, aching to pull him into him. “I’m so so sorry, Stevie.”

 

“I know.” Steve said, his body shuddering as he curled in on himself. “I know, Buck. I know.”

 

Steve slid down the counter and held his face in his hands as his body shook and shuddered with grief. 

 

There was nothing James could do but watch with his own unshed tears as Steve broke down beside him.

***

 

Seven cards laid in front of him. 4 of cups. Ace of Pentacles. 9 of wands reversed. Knight of cups. Temperance. Queen of swords. Death reversed.

 

“Am I going to die?” The woman gasped as Steve pulled the death card out of his deck. 

 

Just outside the tent, he could hear James guffaw. Steve hoped that the woman in front of him couldn’t hear anything, and he was pleased to see her looking intently at him. Her companions, however, shot a dirty glance to the mouth of the tent where he knew James was waiting.

 

“The death card doesn’t usually mean death.” Steve said softly, speaking so only the woman could hear him. It’s a question he often got, and he was always glad to calm the fears of those afraid that they may soon be no longer for this earth. 

 

“I’m unfortunately not able to perceive when someone is about to die, but when I pull the death card, it almost always means that there is a change coming to your life.” 

 

“I just got fired last week!” the woman gasped, as if Steve had told her some private information. Her grandmother had announced it the moment she walked in. 

 

“Ah,” Steve nodded, sagely. Dressed as he was in a dark cloak, perhaps he looked a little more like a fool than a sage. James had told him when he bought the cloak for his tarot reading booth several months ago that he looked like a twerp. He still felt like a twerp in the outfit, but more people came to his tent when he wore the damn thing. It gave the skinny young man an air of mystery. “I see a new beginning for you, and some wishful thinking.”

 

“She’s been thinking about starting over in California!” Her grandfather leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, showing his disapproval. His toothless gums waggled together as he shook his head slowly. 

 

“Have you been thinking of a career in Los Angeles?” Steve asked, when he turned back to the woman in front of him. 

 

“Yes!” She gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. “Do you think I’ll make it big? I’m hoping to become a singer like Adele.” Hope filled her eyes, and Steve could see just how much she had been dreaming for this big break in her life. 

 

“Stephanie’s a horrible singer.” A young man said from the corner of his tent. “She’s got no talent for singing, but she’s an amazing cook.” Steve blushed a deep crimson, and stared intently at the cards before him. 

 

“Well?” She asked, looking desperately at Steve.

 

“I don’t really know for sure.” Steve mumbled. “Sometimes some paths aren’t as clear as others, and singing, for you, seems a bit hazy to me. But I do see you finding a new passion in life.” Steve hastily added. 

 

“This card here,” Steve said as he tapped at the 9 of wands turned upside down, “says that you need to be gentle with yourself, no matter what happens. If certain careers, or moves, don’t work out for you, don’t beat yourself up about it. Something great will come along, and it looks like there may be a great deal of love coming into your life.” Steve tapped at the Knight of cups and Queen of swords. “Just be open to it, and keep your work and social life balanced.”

 

The woman nodded enthusiastically, taking in every word he said, even though he knew when she tried to recall word for word that she would only remember the basics. New career, new life, new love. It was almost always the same for everyone.

 

“I hope that settles your mind,” Steve said with a soft smile. He occasionally would end the short fifteen-minute session here, but almost always, he offered a chance for the person being read to hear messages from the other side. 

 

“I don’t know if you’d be interested, but I’d be willing to offer you a discount on communication with loved ones who have passed on. I have a few people here who would like to say something to you.”

 

“Discount my ass,” her grandmother said, “you’re going to charge her another fifty bucks just so you can tell her I’m proud of her.” 

 

Steve felt his lips twitch toward a smile, but restrained himself from showing his emotions. Of course he charged extra for a second reading, but it wasn’t very often that the spirits complained. 

 

“Of course!” the woman said, “I’d love to hear what’s coming through! It’s kind of like Long Island Medium, isn’t it? Only you aren’t from Long Island, are you?”

 

“No, Brooklyn, born and bred.” Steve smiled. “It’ll be thirty-five dollars.” There, it’s not fifty extra dollars, you old cow. 

 

The woman opened her purse again, and placed the extra bills on top of the twenty she had already paid. Her grandparents shot Steve a disapproving look.

 

Even though he already knew the spirits who came through for her, Steve closed his eyes and pretended to communicate with them under his breath. Mentally, he asked the young man to identify himself.

 

“Trevor.” The boy dressed in black with dyed black hair, said.

 

“I’m getting something with a T…. Travis?” Steve said slowly. “T-T… Not Travis, Trevor.” He opened his eyes when he heard her gasp. “Do you know a Trevor?”

 

She nodded her head so hard, he was sure it would flop off. “He was my best friend in high school. He was hit by a motorcycle while riding his skateboard, and died four years ago.” 

 

To prove his point, Trevor pointed out the skateboard he was sitting on. Steve smiled and nodded, affirming that it was him who wants to speak with the woman.

 

“Trevor tells me to tell you that he knows you will do well in your life, and that you should keep baking. Your cupcakes are amazing.”

 

“I never said anything about cupcakes.” Trevor grumbled. 

 

“He did?” the woman gasped, astounded. “I’m selling cupcakes to make a little bit of money right now! I knew he loved them. I actually have a little stand around the corner.” Steve smiled as if he had no idea, but he had seen the woman selling her wares around Coney Island.

 

“He really did.” Steve said with a false smile. “And he thinks you should definitely keep making those really great cupcakes.”

 

“Tell her she should make them with pot.” Travis said, narrowing his eyes at Steve. “Or put razor blades in the center instead of cream.”

 

Steve ignored him.

 

“Your grandparents would also like to add that they are proud of you, and pleased that you’re taking charge of your life and going on to achieve your dreams.”

 

“We said no such thing.” The grandmother replied, indignant. “I don’t want her to move away from Brooklyn, and I think she should stay here to help her mother care for her younger siblings!”

 

“Wow.” The woman replied to Steve, breathless. “Thank you! Thank you so much! I can’t wait to tell my mom that they were here! Wow!”

 

The woman stood to grab her purse. “Thank you again so much.” 

 

Steve stood, pressed his hands together and gave a little bow, before he swept his arms across the tent back to the boardwalk. Her entourage left behind her, grumbling the whole way out.

 

Before Steve could close the curtain again, James swept in, and settled in the seat the woman vacated. His feet went up on the card table, resting next to a crystal ball. Steve knew most of his routine was an act, but there were some things that people wanted to see before they would believe that someone had  _ The Gift _ . The little touches, like the tarot cards and the crystal ball helped to enhance the public’s perception of the act. 

 

Steve didn’t need all of the little gadgets he owned; he certainly didn’t need the crystal ball or the dowsing rods. When he read someone their tarot, he almost always had an audience there to explain what the cards meant for each person; like the grandparents had for the last customer. Occasionally, the spirits would tell him to forgo any pretense, and to speak plainly to a customer if he or she was open to it.

 

“How come you don’t ever read for me?” James asked, nudging the crystal ball with his toe. Steve placed a hand on it so it wouldn’t roll off the table and crack. 

 

“What is it you think you need to know, Buck?” Steve asked in return. He shuffled his cards, and placed them back into the black leather bag that held them together.

 

“I don’t know. I guess maybe what happens next?” The two men were quiet. James slid his feet down to the floor and leaned forward to look intently at Steve. Steve slid his eyes closed, and took a deep breath. 

 

“I don’t think I can tell you that.” He said softly.

 

“You can’t, or you won’t?” James pressed. 

 

Steve stared at him. He pressed his lips together and shifted the blankets that cover the card tables around him, forcing James to move from the little plastic chair he was in. He arranged his business cards and art for sale, and adjusted items that customers have moved. 

 

“So, you’re just going to not answer me.” James commented. Steve bit his lip and looked up at James and shook his head. 

 

“I can’t. I don’t have the answers you want.”

 

They stood, squaring off with each other. James crossed his arms over his chest, and Steve placed his hands on his hips. Neither were willing to give. James knew that Steve could answer him if he wanted, but he knew that Steve wouldn’t give him an answer. He had always been hesitant to read for James, or if he did do a reading, he never wanted to share what he had learned. 

 

“Steve? Mind if we come in for a chat?” A voice called from outside the tent, breaking the stalemate between the two men. Steve relaxed his body and opened the tent flap for his friend Leo Fitz, and his girlfriend Jemma Simmons. 

 

“Are we interrupting?” Fitz asked, looking at the tense line of Steve’s jaw. 

 

“No, just… finishing a conversation.” Steve said, looking back at James who had slipped out of the tent again. Jemma’s eyes followed the dark haired man. 

 

Fitz shuffled a little and looked at Steve. Both men, though not abnormally short, find value in being able to look the other directly in the eye. In most cases, both men have to look up to look at the others they know. 

 

“You, uh.” Fitz said awkwardly in his thick Scottish accent. He rubbed his hand through his hair, and shrugged slightly, giving Steve a small smile. “I’m glad to see you back. I wasn’t sure-”

 

“I just needed some time.” Steve said softly, looking into the corner where Jemma stood.  “Do you uh, wanna talk to her?” Steve turned then to look at the woman Fitz had brought with him. “I guess I should ask if you, Jemma, want to talk with him.”

 

His lips quirked into a small smile when he saw Jemma share a happy grin. “I would love to, Steve.” She said in her soft southern English accent. Steve pulled out a chair for her to sit, and Fitz sat in the chair next to her. Steve smiled at the both of them before flipping his robe behind him and over the back of the chair as he sat facing the doorway. 

 

In the time that Steve has known Leopold Fitz, the man had been grieving. The woman next to him had died suddenly after their car flipped into a river, and he came to Steve seeking closure. Steve, for all that he could, helped Fitz to come to terms with her death. Fortunately, Jemma was also willing to help the young man survive his grief; she had wanted to help Leo come to terms with her death, and had also wanted him to feel comfortable moving on. 

 

“He met someone.” Jemma said, without pretense or preamble. 

 

“Oh.” Steve said to her, and turned his attention to Fitz, who shifted a little awkwardly in the small chair. “Jemma says that you’ve met someone. Who is she?”

“Um, he. Actually.” Fitz blushed and looked at the pattern of the purple fabric on the table, tracing the gold threads that ran through it. “I. I mean. We-he and I-haven’t… we haven’t done anything! I wanted to talk to Jemma first.”

 

“She’s happy for you.” Steve said, and Jemma nodded, pushing her feelings of happiness out for Steve to feel as well. “She really is happy, and she’s glad you met him.” 

 

“He’s--he’s a good man, Steve. He understands.” Fitz motioned to his head. In the accident that killed Jemma, Fitz suffered severe brain trauma and spent several months in a coma. Their families had thought that the both of them would pass together, but somehow Fitz survived. He had explained to Steve that the apraxia came because he went without oxygen for some amount of time, and that the doctors believed that Jemma had done everything to save his life. 

 

Jemma’s eyes welled up, but she still had a smile on her face. “He’s so good to him. I think that Fitz could really be happy again. With him.”

 

Steve smiled gently and nodded, “She says that she thinks you could be really happy with him. I think it’s worth pursuing, and I think that Jemma aggrees.”

 

“It’s just; I don’t want her to think that I’m forgetting about her.” Fitz said, his voice breaking. Steve could see how hollow Fitz felt by the way he placed his palm on his chest. A tear slipped down his cheek. Steve felt the rush of ache coming from Jemma. It pained her to see him so broken and empty without her love. She leaned in to press a kiss on his cheek. Fitz slid his hand to his cheek. 

 

“I think I felt a spiderweb.” He laughed wetly. Steve had told Fitz months ago that Jemma might reach out and touch him from time to time, and that it could feel like anything from his foot going to sleep, or an ice cube, or walking into a spiderweb. Fitz had been cataloging each time it happened to ask Steve about it. 

 

“She kissed you.” Steve smiled, and gave Fitz a moment to compose himself. The younger man reached for a tissue. “I think she wants you to know that she’ll never think you’re forgetting about her. Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting.”

 

Fitz closed his eyes and nodded, pressing the wet tissue to his face. He choked back a sob. “Will she forget me?” He asked. His head bowed, and he was unable to face Steve.

 

“Never!” Jemma exclaimed, placing a hand on his knee. “You are the love of my life, Fitz. I could never forget you. And until you come to find me, I will be waiting for you.”

 

Steve reached across the table, and placed his hands on top of Fitz’s hands. He squeezed softly, and Fitz looked up at him. “I want you to feel, for a second.” He said, his voice no more than a whisper. “I want you to feel what I feel from her. Close your eyes-take a deep breath.” Steve let go of the mounting wall of energy building between him and Jemma. It always felt to Steve like the moment right before he touched a door handle after rubbing his feet on the carpet. He was a charged particle about to shed energy to another particle.

 

Steve felt the energy slide from his crown chakra, down his arms, out his palms, and into Fitz. Fitz took a deep breath, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Wow,” he breathed out. “Wow, it’s like warmth, and comfort.” He paused. “It feels like her; it smells like her now.”

 

“Do you feel the truth in all she’s told me to tell you? She loves you. She will love you forever, but she knows that this person” Steve looked at her for clarification, and an image of a semi-truck flashed into his mind, “Mack. She knows that Mack will love you so unconditionally, so truly, that you will be honestly happy with him. Even when you miss her, he will be there to help you, and he will love you more for it.”

 

Fitz sniffled and pulled a hand away to wipe away the tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, looking up at Steve with big puffy eyes. 

 

“Thank Jemma.” Steve said with a smile. “I’m just a mouthpiece.”

 

“Thank you, Simmons.” Fitz said softly.

 

“Do you think you’re ready to start letting her go?” Steve asked, his voice the same whisper as Fitz’. 

 

“I have to, don’t I?” Steve nodded slowly. Fitz nods in response, but his eyes widen with fear and nervousness.

 

“Remember,” Steve said, “Even if she isn’t around, she will still love you and visit you in your dreams. And you can still talk to her. She’ll always listen.”

 

Jemma nodded and rested her hand on Fitz’s knee. Fitz moved his hands to cover hers. His fingers curled instinctively around the noncorporeal fingers. “How do we do it?”

 

“All you have to do is tell her that it’s okay, and that you’ll be okay. And you need to mean it.”

 

Fitz swallowed, and bowed his head to his chest. He took two gulping breaths and clenched his eyes shut once more. "I'm going to be okay." He said unconvincingly. He opened his eyes and looked at Steve. 

 

Steve shook his head. "Really mean it."

 

Fitz was quiet for a long moment. Steve could feel the weight in the air from Fitz' decision. He could see the other man search his memories of his dead girlfriend, the ones he's been holding on to for all this time to keep her close in spirit and in memory. Fitz sighed and looked at the chair next to him, where Jemma was sitting. He reached out as if to touch her, but his hand stopped just before reaching her shadow. 

 

"I love you." He started. "I'll love you till the end of my days, in this life and beyond, and I know that you feel the same. I feel it, Jemma." His hand pressed over his heart. "Here. And I know that this is what's best for you, and what's best for me... for me to let you go. For you to go on into the next... maybe it's Valhalla; we were obsessed with Norse mythology for a while. You'll have to tell me when I see you next." Fitz paused, his eyes misting over. 

 

"I think it's time, Jemma. Time for you to go, and time for me to go too. I'm going to be okay. Mac will look after me, and I'll be able to look after myself too. Thank you." Fitz whispered the last sentence. "Thank you for saving my life so I could keep living. Thank you for being the most perfect person in my life. Thank you for loving me so completely."

 

Jemma stood, and pressed a kiss gently to Fitz' cheek as he spoke. For the last time, she ran her fingers through his hair, and played with the little curls on top of his head. "I'll always love you," she whispered as she quietly pulled away. She smiled at Steve, and slowly, she slipped between the white tent flaps. The fabric didn’t move.

 

"She's gone." Fitz said in shock. He looked around the small tent, looking for a sign from her, reaching out for her presence, but finding nothing. "I uh, I guess that's what we want to happen, but I was still a little doubtful."

 

Steve smiled softly and nodded in confirmation. "She knew you meant the words that you were saying, and she knows that you will be fine without her now. You did good, Fitz." He stood up to come to the other side of the table where Fitz sat, now alone. Fitz stood as well, and Steve wrapped his arms around the other man. 

 

A tear slipped out of the corner of Fitz' eye, and Steve pretended to not notice the sniff and warm wetness on his shoulder. When the other man pulled back, Steve didn't say anything. 

 

"Thanks, Steve." Fitz said as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Thank you for everything." Steve nodded, and when Fitz pulled out his wallet to pay Steve for his time, Steve gently pushed the money back toward the other man. 

 

"I'm not taking it this time. We did a lot of healing, and I won't take money for doing what's right." 

 

Fitz folded his wallet and put it back into his pocket. He reached a hand out for Steve’s and gave it a gentle shake. His brow furrowed as he thought.

 

"I know I'm not good with words most of the time, and I don't want to make you upset, but I wanted to thank you for doing this for us, especially after..." 

 

Steve felt cold, like the air in the room was suddenly ten degrees cooler. He felt his smile droop, and his eyes shutter up, so no one else could see the quickly rising emotions in the smaller man. His shoulders inched up slowly around his ears.

 

"I just want to say how sorry I am is all. And you know you can talk to me about it, of course, if you want to, or you need to." Fitz rambled, unaware of the walls being built inside Steve. "I just, I felt like I should say how sorry I am."

 

Steve was quiet for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Fitz shifted awkwardly, unsure if he had really put his foot in his mouth or not, and he picked at a loose thread on his shirt. Steve eventually nodded his head and croaked out a "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind."

 

Fitz quickly left, leaving the other man alone with his thoughts.

***

 

James quietly entered the tent and sat down across from Steve in the seat that Fitz had vacated not long ago. Steve’s head was pooled in his arms and sobs wracked his fragile frame torturing him with their intensity. James could hear that he was trying to hold back the screams that wanted to tear through his lungs, ever mindful of his neighbors. 

 

“Oh, Stevie.” James soothed, tears gathering at the corners of his own eyes. 

 

“I can’t-” Steve sobbed, looking up at his best friend, his lover with red eyes. James had always said that Steve’s eyes were one of the many beautiful parts about him; mostly blue with little flecks of green. The blue stood out brightly against the red.

 

“I can’t-” Steve started again. “Bucky, I can’t do this without you.”

 

James was up and out of his seat before Steve finished his sentence. “Shh,” he soothed. “Stevie. You don’t have to do this without me. I ain’t going nowhere, pal. Not yet anyway.” He was kneeling next to Steve, “End of the line, remember?”

 

Steve looked up at James with shock. “How is this not the end of the line?” Steve wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re dead, Bucky! Dead! That’s the end of the line. There’s no coming back after dead.” Steve’s eyes were watering again and he wrapped his arms around himself tight. 

 

James’ arm reached out to touch Steve, and Steve shivered for the effort. James’ touch felt like ice running down his arm. “Well, I ain’t ready to go.” James said firmly. “I ain’t ready to go and until I am, it’s not the end. And I don’t think you’re ready for me to go yet either.”

 

“But you need to--” Steve said softly.

 

“I don’t need to do shit.” 

 

Steve looked up at James, his face full of emotions; fear, doubt, longing, grief. It was all written over his face, and it was impossible for him to hide it from his lover. His dead lover. 

 

“Look, what you did for FitzSimmons… that was good and all. That’s what they needed. What she needed. I don’t want that yet. Not yet. Not until…” James trailed off and Steve nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. 

 

“Not until they find your body.” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

Steve reached out and laid his hand up on his lap, and James reached to tangle his fingers with Steve’s. Steve couldn’t feel his hand in the way that he used to be able to feel it; it used to be solid and warm, but now it felt faintly like peach fuzz. Cold, intangible, peach fuzz.

 

“They’ll find you, Buck.” Steve said sadly. “They’ll find you. I’ll make sure of it.”

***


End file.
